


Sweet Lamentation

by youcrashstanding



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: A very drunk Tony, Demons, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:10:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcrashstanding/pseuds/youcrashstanding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark finds an unusual package; he assumes it must be a strange little gift from his part-time lover.</p><p>He is horribly wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Lamentation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisiswhatthewatergaveme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiswhatthewatergaveme/gifts), [FelicityGS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicityGS/gifts).



> Yup. So, I did this for me. Not gonna lie. It wouldn't leave me alone, and I broke my two week depression to type it out mid working on the next Built Like a Moth chapter. So, you don't get that, but you do get this. 
> 
> If you are looking for fluffy, this is not where you find it. Then again, I don't think you find that in my frostiron anyway. :}
> 
> If you are looking for my usual pr0n, this is not where you find it.
> 
> This is the other part of my brain.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

 Tony notices the package first in his attempts to squirm out of a meeting Pepper has scheduled for later in the afternoon. It sits centered on his neglected desk, quietly demanding his attention. When asked, Pepper denies delivering it, and leaves with an exaggerated eyeroll and a smattering of muttering beneath her breath. He shrugs and decides to ignore it, then, and puts it out of his mind for the rest of the day and for most of the night.

When he enters the office he spends so much time avoiding to find his emergency bottle of Scotch, there it sits, and finally his curiosity wins the battle over desire for deeper intoxication and he flops into his overpriced office chair to examine the box.

There is no return address anywhere to be found, and the neat black print plastered over the top of the box appears to be typed, though not by anything newer than a typewriter. There are no stamps upon its surface, no postage markings of any kind, and this is generally the sort of thing that would concern Stark; would  _worry_  him, even, had he not already polished off most of a bottle of Maker's Mark before his quest for more alcohol. His fingers glide over cardboard and cellophane tape and his pulse quickens; he licks his lips and somewhere in the distance his brain tells him there are  _chimes_ , soft and light. He shakes his head, clears his throat, and looks about before taking the box and giving it an exploratory shake. Whatever is inside thumps about softly; it is not fragile.

He  _wants_  it. 

He searches about the desktop for a letter opener; his hands are clumsier than he would like, and it bites through the tape and right into the pad of his thumb, opening a thin red gash. He gives an annoyed hiss and slides the bleeding flesh between his lips and sucks; the taste of copper is sharp and harsh and the sting from his tongue against the wound is more  _focusing_  than displeasing. He rifles through the box with his free hand, eager without understanding the extent or the  _why_  of it, and his fingers brush a cool, smooth surface, sharp right angles; they grasp the object and pull it forth from crumpled parchment that smells of dust and vanilla and the remnants of fire.

 _Another_  box.

This one is lacquered and slick and inky black, inlaid in fine, thin gold patterns he's never seen before. He cocks his head, takes his wounded thumb from his mouth, and strokes the top of it. 

He's not sure what to make of it; what it is, what to _do_  with it. Much too arcane for a paperweight. It _feels_  valuable,  _old_  in his hands, alluring, heavy in a way he cannot place, heavy in a way that has nothing to do with its physical mass. His mind wanders to his errant lover and he wonders... smiles. Maybe. A gift? A strange one, unasked for, unexplained, but... he drops it into his robe pocket and wraps a hand around the neck of his beloved Scotch bottle, and makes his way out of the office and towards the elevators and the sanctity of his penthouse.

It's heavy hanging in his pocket, brushing his leg as he walks- sways- to the door,  _heavy_  at his side as he creeps into his bottle, and before long the box is out in his hands as he sits cross-legged on a ridiculously plush black rug, the bottle nestled carefully in his lap, his fingers gliding around the clean black edges of the box, seeking, turning the thing from side to side. 

There was something,  _something_ to it, and his fingers _could not_  leave it be.

"New age paperweight or creepy Valentine?" he mutters, and as the words crawl from his inebriated tongue a click sounds and the box slides in two, pushed upward by the guiding edges of his finger tips. The golden design is bisected neatly; whatever hinges or springs are inside, the piece glides upward as easily as something built by his own hand. The far edge slides inward across the top of the box, and Tony finds himself delighted with the clever beauty of the design. He pushes the piece back into itself, and it glides easily back into place on well oiled gears. "How do you work?" he breathes, curious. 

He is so engrossed in finding another pattern that he does not hear the soft, strange little rondo that whispers to life around him. The world has narrowed, and a fine sheen of sweat breaks across his brow as he pushes, searches. He does not notice the lights flicker or the plaintive protests of JARVIS as the system slips offline, drowning under a rising tide of magic that had no tolerance or pity for modern technology. Two of the edges give way, twist, and he lets them, watches as they turn themselves back to rights.

The lights are  _gone_  when his forefinger traces the golden circle at the center of the box's face. The box is instantly divided into sixteenths; half of it rises and spins of its own accord. The music builds, pulsing, and Tony feels it in his jaw, down his spine; heat spills in his groin, creeps across his forehead, races through his finger tips. The cool bottle nestled in his crotch brings his attention to his growing erection; he doesn't stop to consider it, only pulls the bottle away and lets it drop onto the floor, leaking alcohol from its loose cap as it rolls to a rest in the forest of the rug.  He licks his lips eagerly and pushes the pieces together again; they make a beautiful discordant sunburst now, a box blown wide, and the music, ah, he finally  _hears_ it, delights at the realization that it's linked to the little trinket in his hands, marveling again at its design, that on top of this excellent craftsmanship and the centuries-old still functioning mechanisms inside it still plays  _music..._

It lifts again of its own accord and slides into place, a box once more, and it's  _easy_  now, he sees the seams and turns and lifts it, again, twists and it is once more a jagged sunburst of a thing, glittering on its outsides and fine polished storm darkness on every exposed aspect; there are no catches, no hesitations, no splinters, no errant gears or spots of oil or anything, anything at all to betray the perfection of the piece, and the music is building, building, and his skin is tight and hot and he cannot imagine why he did not devote his time to this beautiful puzzle sooner, why he had bothered spending the day doing anything else, why he had so carelessly shaken this treasure as if it were no more than a cheap Christmas gift...

The music dissolves into the plaintive, mournful ringing of a deep, deep bell, and there is no physical way for such an awful bone deep sound to emanate from such a tiny piece of wood and clockwork; fear spikes sharp and sudden in Tony's gut, and he lets out a gasp as the strange shape reverts itself and begins another slide into its original shape; he is aware in this moment, at last, that though the lights are out and JARVIS is silent as the grave he can see clearly the thing in his hands, can see because of a strange grey light. It feels as if a thousand doves beat their wings behind his ribs, fluttering against his damaged heart, through his arc reactor, waiting to be set free; the bell tolls louder, shaking through him, and he grips the box tightly, whites of his eyes flashing as dread wars with mindless agonizing _need_  inside of him. 

A pair of hands white as death snatch the terrible, beautiful thing from him, fingers clamping tight around the hard angles and twisting, keeping it star-burst, strange, wide; the bells  _ache_. 

Ache. The grey light grows behind his eyes and he feels blind and terrified and full to the brim with the void.

There are flashing green eyes and an angular pale face before him, a voice sharp as knives hissing, "Of all the myriad ways in which you might find your end, Anthony Stark, this is not one I'd  _ever_  wish upon you."

"Loki?" Tony tries to swallow but his throat has gone to ash, aching, his lips feel swollen, bruised, and he reaches out (for the box, not for those hands) and  Loki slips away, eyes narrowing, teeth grit tight, bared.

"Foolish thoughtless mortal," comes the jagged, icy reply. "You've no _idea_  what you've set into motion. What you've gone calling for- or what is now calling for  _you_." His face twists in anger, disgust-  _something_  unreadable and strange and Tony reaches out again, only to be snarled at. 

"That's mine," he tries, blinking, unsure, afraid and still defiant. His heartbeat is bells, is the faintest rustle of chains, the grind of wood, soft, dry footsteps, the rustling of snakes.

"It's not," Loki growls, "It never was." 

Tony opens his mouth to reply, but there is nothing left to reply to; Loki has gone, and he takes with him the darkness; JARVIS whirs online, the world lurches forward and light spills across the penthouse, harsh and immediate. He lets out a broken cry and shudders, staggering to his knees and making it off of the rug before his stomach turns itself inside out and he's left gagging and heaving, alone, and somehow horribly thankful.

~~

 

It is not so easy to ward off what's set into motion. He  _knows,_  and it is blood and agonizing pain and darkness deeper than the void he fell through to put it back, to whisper words of power and binding as the bells drone on, to reverse the awful configuration. He is standing in the way of hell, he knows, and it at best a suicidal gamble.

It is  _impossible_  to ward off what's been set into motion. He drops the box with an angry snarl and watches it click into place, fall apart, and slide together; grits his teeth against the howling bells and he does not open his eyes; does not open them to the rustling of chains or the footsteps in the darkness. The air is filled with vanilla and carrion and ash and old, old blood, power that would bring Odin himself to stagger to his knees, if only for a moment.

"You cannot have him. I know not who has placed your pretty door in the mortal's hands, but you cannot have him. I know your faces. I know your tender mercies; I saw them well enough on my fall. I know that you will not be satisfied until you have flesh to rend, and I am not in the  _position_  to offer mine." He swallows hard, chokes on his own blood from his efforts at holding back the terrible host before him.

"You wish to parlay, Loki Liesmith?" and the words are sweeter than they have any right to be, laced in threat and the promise of pain centuries deep. 

Loki does not open his eyes.

He's seen  _enough_  for lifetimes.

"I offer you something sweeter than a mortal's pain could ever be; something ripe with decay and power and all the sin you find so sublime. Let your chains find sturdier flesh. I offer you pain a hundred fold of what you could wring from the nerves of a man already worn and void-struck."

" _Sweet words, empty promises_."

"Full and true, you have my blooded word, on my chained son and my half-dead daughter, on the beginning and the end and all that is after, I will give you pain well rewarded if you spare the man whose clumsy fingers brought you forth and take another in his stead."

"We are listening,  _Liesmith.._."

 ~~~

 

"You owe me  _favors_  and you bring me  _trinkets_? How is  _this_  a worthy payment, Silvertongue?" A sneer curls Mephisto's thin lips, and he runs sharp fingers along his chin, feigning a look of disinterest.

He is not, of course, disinterested in the strange little box in Loki's pale cold hands; the thing leaks power, whispers it, radiates it, but Mephisto is not so foolish as to be  _open_  in his interest. 

"It is  _more_  than worthy," Loki purrs. "Within it there lies a great power.  _Worlds_  of power, you could say; a fine prize on par with the Tesseract, though this, I believe," he allows the box to tumble from palm to palm, smooth and elegant, "this is far more to  _your_  liking."

"How so?" the demon asks, leaning forward, arching an eyebrow.

"It is built in black magic and bone and the boiling fat of the damned. I have seen the power it offers, and tasted its pleasures. A trinket, you say, but a trinket worth a thousand petty favors. A trinket that offers solutions to a thousand petty problems. An object sought after by Death herself, I've heard. Mayhaps  _that_ is why I stole it in the first place." He feigns a look of innocence that lays neatly across his sharp features; it is a look the demon has seen many, many times, and one he certainly does not trust; but they are neither of them entirely trustworthy. 

"How intriguing," Mephisto remarks, reaching out a hand. Loki smiles and takes a step back.

"It isn't quite so simple. You must be worthy of it,  _clever_ ; the box doesn't surrender itself easily," he adds, face a careful mask to hide the vicious thrill that boils beneath the surface. "But I rather thought a puzzle an appropriate payment, given the debt between us."

That is all it takes, of course, the hint, the notion, that Mephisto may not be clever enough for something Loki has solved and manipulated. The demon reaches forward again, liberating the box from the trickster's hands, and grumbles, "I'm not just anyone, you wriggly little Asgardian shit, and I _like_  where you're going with this. I really do. I suppose it's why I bother with you at all. "

"Too true." Loki smiles, offers a graceful shrug that sweeps into a low bow. "We are even, then? There is no debt between us?"

"I suppose we are even, until you decide you have need of my favor again," Mephisto adds, and Loki nods solemnly.

"Until that day indeed," he agrees.

~

There is very little ceremony in Loki's departure.

There is a touch in the way Mephisto contemplates the pretty little trinket in his quick, sleek hands, as he mutters words of power that have no effect at all in unveiling the box's secrets. He thinks for a moment that he has been duped by the trickster god, and makes to toss the damned thing against the wall, but his fingertips find a seam and suddenly a portion of the box's guilt surface splits and rises, and a soft peal of music begins to play, a mummer's farce of innocence plastered across power that draws even a prince among demons mindlessly towards its solution.

There is even _less_ ceremony in Mephisto's realization and rage as the bell tolls, clear, bone-deep and infernal, as the box spins itself along its terrible patterns, completing its ritual. The wall before him quivers and blows away, leaving his vision filled with swirling, frantic darkness and the drumming wingbeats of thousands of birds.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yell at me at youcrashquims.tumblr.com if you must.


End file.
